As Night Comes On
by geminigrl11
Summary: They have spent a lifetime raging against the dying of the light. And now . . . they will go gently. Deathfic.


**Warning: Gratuitous deathfic**  
**A/N:** With apologies to: Dylan Thomas, Walter Savage Landor (title is from his poem "Death of the Day"), my one-and-only Faye and to you, gentle reader, for inflicting this on you. All I can say in my defense is that I got an image in my head and it wouldn't go away until I wrote it. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**_As Night Comes On_**

It's almost a nightmare.

He's climbing and climbing and climbing and then the stairs suddenly give way and he plummets. The feeling of falling is terrifying. His arms flail, but there is nothing to grab, and he can see the ground rushing to him, anticipates the impact, knows there is no help for it –

And then it stops. Suspended animation.

He's been caught by something warm, something safe, and now he's drifting. He is lax, pliant, and the change from the rapid heart-in-mouth, no-escape descent is so drastic, so welcome, he could cry.

He feels like a newborn, swaddled in soft arms, his head a-rest on downy pillows.

Peaceful.

Someone is calling his name and he tries to roll from the sound. This feeling is too rare, too precious to relinquish, and he sinks into it.

_Sam._

The voice is more insistent now, harder to ignore. He shakes his head. Don't. Don't take me away.

_Sammy, wake up. Come on. _

It's Dean. He should have known.

"Sam, wake up."

He frowns open heavy eyes and tries to focus. He can't see Dean yet – it's too dark. But he knows he's there.

"S'okay, Dean. It was a good dream."

Dean makes some noise – annoyance or relief, Sam can't tell. He's let himself fall back into the pillow and he's asleep.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Warm and wet and dripping on his forehead. Again.

Again.

He tries to flinch away, but another droplet lands. He can feel it seeping into his skin, branding him the way it always does. But he won't open his eyes this time. He can't get away, but he doesn't have to _see._

_Please, Sam. Please._

Broken, anguished words but not her voice. Not her.

Panic seizes him and he can't breathe.

"No. _No._" He is begging, horrified. His worst nightmare come true. Dean's voice above him. Dean –

"Please, Sammy."

Another droplet. Why can't he get away?

"I can't . . . "

"Yes, you can. Please."

For Dean, he tries. But he's pinned down. Arms and legs and eyelids – can't move any of them. Can't move.

"Dean?"

A hand on his forehead, wiping the blood away. Making him clean.

"Open your eyes, Sam."

Minutes, hours, days pass, and then there is light, bright and blinding. He wants to close his eyes again, but Dean asked.

He still can't see Dean, though. There's something hard under his head, something solid and coarse. He thinks he feels a heartbeat.

"Dean?"

"I'm here. Open your eyes."

"I did."

"Not yet, but close. Try harder."

Dean sounds funny – choked and raspy, like he does when he's sick.

Another droplet lands on his forehead and his eyes are open now. He tries to lift a hand to brush it off, but it's already sliding down the crease of his forehead, light and itchy.

Not blood.

"Are you crying?" Even as he says the words, they make no sense. Dean doesn't cry. And if he does, it's certainly not ever in front of Sam, never over Sam.

In an instant, he's afraid.

He needs to see Dean, needs to sit up and look at him and know he's okay, because Dean doesn't cry. But he can't move. He feels heavy, weighted down, thinks he must have slept wrong or pinched a nerve.

"Dean, where are you?"

The solidness beneath his head shifts. Dean's out of focus, but close when he answers. "Right here."

He feels a hand on his forehead again, brushing through his hair, soft and soothing. The fear grows stronger.

"What – " he struggles to push himself over or up or something , to roll or turn or raise his arms but nothing happens. "Dean, what's going on?"

Dean is quiet for much too long. His fingers never stop moving though, combing slowly through Sam's bangs, over the crown of his head, brushing strands back behind his ear, sliding toward the nape of his neck. It should be comforting, maybe even would be, if it were someone else. But Dean doesn't do this. They don't do this. It's all wrong.

His breaths turn ragged and a memory takes shape in the back of his mind. Suddenly, he doesn't want to know. He hopes Dean stays silent, prefers to lie here in this place, wherever it may be, and drift like he was before, safe and protected and ignorant. He opens his mouth to take it back, ask Dean not to tell him, but it's too late.

"We had a bad fall, little brother." Dean tries to laugh, but it comes out as a sob and Dean's hand splays over the back of his head, holding him like he can't let go.

It comes back in an instant – tracking a black dog through the woods, flanked north and south, closing in. There'd been a rush of adrenaline as it charged, as he'd fired quickly – one, two, three – and watched it fall, Dean running up seconds later, expression shifting from worry to pride and shared victory. They'd burned the remains, Dean bitching about needing to do laundry again to get the stench of rotting flesh out of his favorite jeans.

They'd been walking back, loose-limbed and easy-paced, talking strategy and tracking and weapons handling – Monday-morning quarterbacking like they always did, after the easy ones. The ones where no one got hurt.

And then the ground had opened up and swallowed them, no time even to cry out.

He can smell the rot of long-damp earth, the metallic scent of mineraled dirt. The air is damp, cool, with no hint of breeze. The light that at first blinded him is muted now, filtered and diffused, its source long and far away. It makes a halo around Dean's head.

He thinks that's oddly fitting.

"Mine shaft?" He tries to lift his head, but he can't move beyond an inch or two, and even that small motion makes white spots dance before his eyes. He lets his head fall back, not sure what he is trying to see. There is only his brother. And a wall, dark and smooth and solid. And high – so high.

"Looks like." Dean's hand hasn't moved and Sam feels the tension in his fingers.

He has to push the words out, already knowing the answer but not wanting to hear it. Hearing it will make it real. "Are you hurt?"

There's a long, drawn sigh, and he knows Dean doesn't want to say it, either. "Broke my leg."

He doesn't have to see Dean's face to know it's more than that. He's still willing his hands to move, but not expecting a response. He turns his head, instead, pressing closer into what he knows now is Dean's thigh, offering the only comfort he can. "Tell me."

Dean sighs again, but there's a hitch, and Sam can hear the pain layered underneath his words. "The . . . bone went through. Arm, too."

"Phones?"

"No service."

No help. No hope.

He closes his eyes, licks dry lips. He can no longer ignore the fact that his body won't respond to any of his mind's commands, at least not below the neck. "I can't feel anything."

Possibly the hardest words he has ever had to say – not for him, but for Dean. Worse even than, _I'm leaving, you can't stop me_. 

Dean's fingers pick up where they left off, almost a caress.

"I know, Sammy. I know."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's not sure when he fell asleep this time, doesn't remember doing it until he's awake again, apologies spilling from his lips.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." It's hard to speak; his jaw is tight and his teeth are chattering. Dean's thumb brushes gently above his nose, smoothes away the worry lines.

"You didn't do anything, Sam."

But he did. "I left you alone."

Dean's hand is on his cheek now. He can feel the calluses, the rough-torn edge of skin on the pads of Dean's fingers. "You're right here. You didn't go anywhere."

"'M not leaving you." It's not like he can move anyway. But he needs for Dean to know.

"I know you're not. It's alright."

Dean's leg moves beneath him and he hears a strangled groan.

"Dean?"

There's no answer, just the sound of shallow panting.

Dean's hand is gone.

"Dean!" He panics. He can barely lift his head and Dean has moved away, out of his line of vision. Dean's leg is shaking now, harder than Sam's own shivering. He turns, presses his forehead against the bunched up jeans, burrowing in, frantic to keep some kind of contact.

_"Dean . . ."_ Scalding, helpless tears burn acid trails over his skin. Dean is in trouble, hurting, worse – and he can't move, can't help, can't even see him, and it's a pain like none he's ever known.

He prays his brother's name, over and over, pleading with everything in him. _"Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean . . ." _

There is a ghastly silence, broken only by the harshness of his own breathing.

He is alone.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The faded light is all but gone when he feels Dean move again. He holds his breath, dizzy with relief when Dean's hand settles over him, fingers uncoordinated, almost flinching against Sam's scalp.

"Dean? You with me?"

"I'm . . . here . . ." Dean sounds raw, weak – a tone he's only heard a handful of times in his life. The relief all but evaporates. "You okay?"

He is thirsty, his tongue dry and swollen. His head aches, pounding throbs mixed with little currents of electricity that shoot across the top of his skull and down his neck and then abruptly end. He feels like he can't quite draw a full breath anymore, and his eyes burn with tears shed and unshed. The creep of cold is relentless.

"I'm good. What about you?"

Dean laughs once – a pained, desperate sound. "Yeah, me too."

Of course he is. Aren't they both? Aren't they always? Unmarked, unscathed, undamaged . . .pick up and move out and on and on and on, and they are always, always fine. Right?

He doesn't want to think anymore.

"Where's Lassie when you need her?"

He's rewarded when Dean laughs for real this time.

He grins, heavy-lidded. "What's that, girl? Timmy fell down the well? We're on our way."

Dean keeps laughing – too much, and in a jerky, gasping way that jostles Sam's head. Dean's palm hovers over his ear, keeping him in place.

"I always wondered, though, dude – why a collie? I mean, Lassie should have been a Rottweiler or a Great Dane, you know? Something big and tough."

"A Great Dane? With all that climbing through windows and under fences stuff she had to do? She'd've never fit."

"Way too literal, Sammy. It's all about image, right? A collie is sure as hell not intimidating."

"Timmy liked her just the way she was."

"Well, Timmy was an idiot. I mean, what kind of moron falls down a well?"

Gallows humor. They are both laughing now, nearly breathless.

The laughter fades and he realizes it's dark – full and deep, impenetrable. At the same moment, he smells the acrid tang of butane, hears the quick click-scratch as Dean rolls the Zippo's cam spring. The flame leaps, then settles. Dean sets the lighter on a little indentation just above his head.

"Don't know how long it will last. Been a while since I filled it."

He nods, knows Dean probably can't see him but he can feel.

Dean brushes his bangs back, slow and repetitive. The motion almost hypnotizes him; he can feel his eyelids drooping. But he doesn't want to sleep. Not yet.

"Not getting out of here, huh?" The time for humor has passed.

"Doesn't look like it."

Dean's hand pauses, backtracks, skims over his ear.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"Not your fault."

"I should have gotten us out of here."

"Dean . . . " He pauses, pants, tries to get enough air to say what he needs to. "It's okay." It's woefully insufficient but his mind can't seem to form the words. Dean cups his chin, runs a cold thumb across his cheekbone.

"Always thought it would be . . . a bang, not . . . not a whimper." Dean's voice is soft. He sounds so far away, down here in the depths where even the night sounds can't reach them.

"Blaze of . . . glory . . ."

"Yeah, little brother. Cowboys 'til the end."

They fall silent. He watches the shadows flicker along dark walls, feels himself sinking, knows there isn't much time left. Dean's hand stills but doesn't leave his face. He turns into Dean's palm, lets his eyes close.

"It's okay." He's repeating himself but doesn't realize it. The words mean something different this time. Unity. Understanding. Acceptance. They have spent a lifetime raging against the dying of the light. And now . . . they will go gently.

"It's okay," Dean agrees.

The flame sputters, shimmers, and burns out.

_Fin_


End file.
